Tag Archives: Life

Speedo

Actually, Speedo plural.  I own seven of them, one of which I wore today. Pauline,  our personal support worker, and I took Jody to the Port Stanley beach – a couple of miles of white sand looking out on Erie Ocean.  So named because I can’t see Pennsylvania (or is it Ohio?) on the far side.

Some ingenious man or woman invented the beach wheelchair, a comfy contraption with huge balloon tires that make rolling across sand a snap. The Port lifeguard service has one of the vehicles available for handicapped folks, and there’s no charge.  Yay for humanity!  Jody was so excited about the trip and absolutely thrilled when she got to dangle her feet in the water.

What to wear … what to wear.  One of the seven brief splashes of colour, of course -the orange and black one, as a matter of fact.  But I knew what would be coming … lots of stares, lots of guffaws among knots of more stylish humans, and general discomfort.  I’ve never understood – women in string bikinis revealing plenty of cheek, and men with trunks that almost reach the knee.  Doesn’t seem fair.

With the beach umbrella  and chairs set up, and Jody all set for the water, it was time to take off my t-shirt and shorts.  Gulp.  An aching fear coursed through me.  Why should I be so afraid of a hundred eyes turning my way?  Well, it doesn’t matter why, I just was.  And so what?  A healthy dose of fear, that’s all.  Good for the soul.  So off came the outers.  And somehow the gods of proper attire did not strike me dead.

Revealed in all my glory, I watched the fear roam around inside.  It was really hot today, so I suppose I was sweating already.  I listened to my breath and it took maybe five minutes for it to settle down.  Then Pauline and I brought Jody to the lapping waves.  With the wheels soon underwater, I was behind Jody widening my stance and gripping the handlebars tight to prevent her from tipping.  “Okay, Bruce.  Now your total backside, complete with whatever muscle definition you can muster, is on display for the towel and umbrella set.”  Happily, no one tapped me on the shoulder, to hand out a ticket for unlawful use of a Speedo.

Several times during our shore sojourn, when Jody was back on the sand, I walked around, once to fetch a kid’s hat that a mom had dropped, and once to put garbage in the big can, 50 feet way, just to see if I would have a heart attack or something.  Nope to the cardiac emergency.  Eventually, we returned to the car, with all my body parts intact.  What a roller coaster.

By the way, is your mind as strange as mine?

How Am I Doing?

I love riding my bicycle but I haven’t done it regularly for at least eight months.  Today was my third time out this week.  I was finally strong enough to do my time trial route – out and back on the ups and downs of Fruit Ridge Line.  It was the 86th time I’ve completed the ride.

I love the farmers’ fields, the woodlots, the horses to the left and then to the right.  I know every kilometre by heart.  But being in the beauty of the moment – feeling my legs, feeling my breathing, feeling my old friend and bike Ta-pocketa beneath me – often fritters away.  I can get pretty stuck in stats.

My fastest time ever was 54:34 on September 29, 2004.  Today was 1:06:29.  And I leaned towards badness in my mind.  “That’s my eighth worst time.”  Not important.  “I should be faster.”  Not important.  “Most cyclists could do the route far quicker than me.”  Not important.

“I averaged 21.7 kph a couple of days ago.  I should have done better than that today.”  Not important.  “Burning 750 calories an hour is a really good fitness standard, and I didn’t reach that.”  Not important.  “My average heart rate was 145 beats per minute – that’s too much effort.”  Not important.  “This was my 86th time trial ride.  I have to make 100.”  Not, not , not.

What happens to the essence of me within all those facts and figures?  It gets hidden.  I spend too much time looking down at the cycle computer on my handlebar  and not enough time taking the long view … Fruit Ridge flowing up and down, the rows of apple trees, the bird boxes on stilts in the pond … the green and yellow and blue.

Can I let go of self-assessment on the bike, and just be there?  I don’t know.  I don’t think statistics are bad, but I need to change something.  How about putting the computer on my wrist and only looking at the numbers when the ride is over?  Yes, that would work.  The world is there to be seen.  And see it I will on Sunday.

Maybe someday, I’ll just leave the darn old computer sitting on my chest-of-drawers.  And never put it on Ta-pocketa again.  Wouldn’t that be an ultimate letting go?  No attachment.  No more, better and different.  No sense of me and mine.

 

 

 

This

I often wake up scared.  It’s usually about items on my “to do” list that have remained undone for some time.  Last July, I hit my head on the floor during a yoga session at a meditation retreat in Massachusetts.  Huge pain in my neck, and soon I couldn’t turn my head.  I thought of stories I’d heard of Canadians incurring big bills in the States after seeking medical help.  So I just lay down on my bed.  After ten minutes of that, it was clear that I needed to see a doctor.  So I found the retreatant support staff member, and she drove me to Athol Memorial Hospital.  Two hours later, after X-rays and anti-inflammatory medication, we were heading back to the retreat centre.  The pain and stiffness continued for the next couple of days.

Back home in Union, I waited for the fateful bill.  A month later, the letter said I owed the hospital $1261.55 US.  Ouch.  So began weeks of correspondence with the hospital; with the Ministry of Health in Ontario; with Green Shield, my extended health provider; with Manulife, Jody’s provider; and with my school board.  In October, Jody got sick.  All I had accomplished concerning the claim was a cheque for $65.00 from the Government of Ontario.  My life beyond Jody went on hold.

My waking terror has often had a name attached to it: “Athol”.  Some days, I’ve let the fear overwhelm me with shakes and sweat.  Occasionally though, even in the midst of it all, I’ve heard the word “this” come out of me.   As opposed to “that”.  Over the years, I’ve used “this” as a code, telling me to listen inside to whatever is happening right now and to accept it totally.  It doesn’t mean that if something is difficult for me that I won’t work in the future to change it.  But the future is not now.  The cornucopia of events, people, thoughts, feelings and physical sensations is now.  What if I let all of that be what it is?  Some mornings, I have.

At those moments, it’s not that I suddenly turn all happy and peaceful.  No, the $1261.55 is still coursing through my body.  I still sweat.  But something has changed.  It’s as if the sea is still roiling and boiling, but way beneath the waves is a light.  I’m gasping for air on the surface, but I do see that light.  It bathes the moment with a golden sheen.  And somehow life is all right.  No deficit.  No yearning for “not this”.  Within the sweat … no sweat.

And then it’s gone.  “This” has become “that”, wanting it all to be different.  It’s okay, though.  “This” is just a visitor, but I know it will be back.

Mount Lineham: View from the Top

It was 1969, and I had just taken the train from Toronto to start work in the mountains, at Waterton Lakes National Park, Alberta.  Every day off from the hotel was a hike – slopes that this Ontario kid had never experienced.  My new friend Vince and I decided one day to take the Rowe Lakes trail.  The turquoise waters of Lower and Upper Rowe Lakes beckoned.  Partway along the trail up the valley, the trees parted, and a scree slope presented itself on the right, drawing our eyes up and up to the top of Mount Lineham.  Vince and I looked at each other and knew what our next free day would be about – straight up the slope to the first mountain peak experienced by kids from Regina and Toronto.

And that’s what we did, not realizing that loose rock and gravel meant two feet up and one foot down.  So naive, and so eager.  Hour upon hour fell to our feet, and our breaks revealed the beauty of the mountain on the other side of the highway below us.  Each time we rested, that other mountain showed us its secrets – masses of evergreen yielding to scraggly pines, fields of scree, and tiny waterfalls.

Looking back up at Lineham, we wilderness virgins got to experience the “false summit” phenomenon.  What looked like the top from our angle simply wasn’t.  And it continued not to be … until …

The last hundred feet to the summit was an agonizing slog.  Breathing in loud gasps, we saw Alpine Forget-Me-Nots and orange lichen pass slowly beneath us.  And back the other way, we were just below the summit ridge of the neighbouring mountain.  I was nearly crawling, until finally the steepness lessened and lessened, till ahead we saw a plateau maybe twenty feet across.  Thirty steps to go … twenty … ten … three … and we stepped onto the top of the world.

A panorama of snow-capped peaks was suddenly all around us.  They stretched to four horizons, seas of white.

Silence from Vince.  Silence from me.  For many minutes.

***

In my todays, Mount Lineham remains.  Years ago, I read a description of “ah-ha” moments in a book.  The writer asked us to imagine being inside a tent, staring at the four brown walls.  Then some magical force grabs the ridgeline and hauls the canvas up and away, revealing a sublime beauty.  For me, it’s the beauty of the mountains surrounding Lineham on that sunny June day in 1969.   Whenever I want to, or really whenever I’m present enough to, the ordinary moments of my life are animated with white, and I’m welcomed to a vastness beyond words.

I Love You

Spouses and lovers holding hands on the couch, slipping into each other’s eyes.  A little girl and a little boy sitting on the asphalt, her hand over his bleeding knee.  A big slobbery dog smiling up at his master, wagging his tail wildly.  All love.  And at the deepest, I feel, no different from one another.

For me, when I love, there is a quietness in my body.  It’s like all the cells have come to a halt.  And there’s a “shimmering down” vibrating from my head southward, a little ripple of contentment.  They are feelings that often descend when I’m with my wife Jody.  But they can also show up in the classroom, on the highway, in the mall.  Sometimes I shimmer when I see kindness flowing from one human being to another.  Occasionally, I’ve felt love after reading the written word, even messages from people I’ve never met.

I’ve ended some e-mails with “I love you”, and it’s felt totally right.  Me aiming something at you.  When I’m less brave, I write “With love”.  Coming back to me, I usually see “Love” or “xoxo”.  Hardly ever “I love you”.  And that’s fine.  I bet there’s a shimmer behind the word.

I’m scared to say “I love you” in person, but on occasion I’ve girded my loins and uttered the phrase.  Why is it so hard to speak those three little words?  They’re such blessed words.  I wonder if people come my way in life who have never heard them.  I need to say them, and act in a way that expresses the love I feel.

There’s a song by John Prine called “Hello In There”.  Here’s a sample:

So if you’re walkin’ down the street sometime
And you should spot some hollow ancient eyes
Don’t you pass them by and stare
As if you didn’t care
Say “Hello in there. Hello”

Indeed.

 

 

 

 

Costa Rica versus Italy

In the World Cup of soccer, this is a minnow facing a salmon.  Costa Rica is ranked 28th in the world, with a population of 5,000,000.  Italy is 9th, with 61,000,000.  I wonder why I always pull for the underdog, the little guy.  I guess it’s a part of my “no one left out” vision of life.

So I want someone to win, and someone else to lose.  I get nervous when my team is behind.  Costa Rica is “me”, and Italy is certainly “not me”.  But Costa Rica doesn’t always succeed, and even if they do eventually win the match, they’re often trailing their opponent at the half.  So … I get to be unhappy a fair bit of the time.   Gosh, is that really necessary?  Isn’t there some other approach I can take to “the beautiful game”?

Maybe.  How about if I pull for the team who plays to win, rather than the one trying not to lose?  The players who push the ball up the field with long passes, who shoot first and pass second when the scoring opportunity is there, and on defence throw their foot at the opponent’s ball to knock it away, risking a penalty if that foot contacts leg first, rather than the ball.

Or … cheer for the team who really belts out their national anthem at the beginning of the game, whose fans chant and sing and jump up and down.  You know, a country that drips with passion for life.

On the other hand, maybe I don’t have to cheer for either team.  I could just drink in the essence of great plays – the hard shot that looks like it’s going wide right and then curves towards the net, only to be batted away by a horizontally leaping goaltender.  The deft flick of the head or of the outside of the foot, placing the ball softly at the feet of an onrushing teammate.  I could just cheer for wonderfulness, no matter the colour of the jersey.  And  I could stand up for games that are close all the way through, where the excellence of one team sparks the excellence of the other.  Wow … maybe I could be happy all the time during World Cup 2014.

By the way, Costa Rica won 1-0.  I’m happy.

 

 

Sitting and Watching

I retired yesterday and decided to declare 4:00 pm as the end point of my teaching career. My wife Jody and I have a lovely home on a deep lot. At the back of our lot are maybe 20 metres of trees, and then it’s on to a farmer’s field and beyond that a wide expanse of trees leading down into a ravine.

Taking my trusty red fabric chair in hand, not to mention a Bacardi Breezer, I trundled off to a spot at the edge of the field and plunked myself down. It was 3:00 o’clock. The sky was blue. The wind whistled through the trees. The shade was cool. One hour away from being a retired human being.

My mind raced. Then my mind stopped. Then raced again. How to analyze a career? (Don’t) Who are the dear souls I want to think about? (It’s okay if no one comes to mind) What are the moments of grace in the classroom and on the yard? (You may not remember)

So I let go. Not just into a meditative state, but into an okayness with whatever showed up. There was nothing to accomplish in this hour. “Bruce, let it all flow over you.” So I did.

I wanted birds. My sitting would be better with birds. For some of the time, no birds appeared. But I knew that birds often flew the sky in front of me. There was bird energy all around. And then they showed up. As many as five turkey vultures at one time, with their high arcs of swoop, sometimes way up there and sometimes almost touching the treetops. When there was only one vulture, I wanted two. Then that urge was gone, and I thought of the “ugly faces” that some folks see, somehow missing the glories of five feet of wing soaring so sweetly.

On the far side of the soybean field, the trees stretched in a wide arc. I wanted to know their names. I couldn’t remember many of the species I saw. And then … poof! The names meant nothing at all. Trees were there, just standing there, being trees.

Way off to the right, I heard the highway to Port Stanley. Trees blocked my view of the cars. That’s good – I need to have quiet. But then … I missed the people. I want to see the cars. The only note of civilization I could glimpse from my spot was one backyard. Good. I don’t want to be with people … But I love people. Why isn’t there anyone in the yard for me to wave to? And hey, aren’t I supposed to be thinking about my career? After all, it’s 3:23.

And then I just sat. All these thoughts, zooming every which way. “Bruce, they’re all okay.” There’s no right way to sit and watch.

The field rolled to my twin horizons. Such graceful curves of land. The trees stood there – light green, dark green, a few of them dead. Birds came and went. I thought of a kid. I thought of a school. I thought of nothing.
I had brought a fancy watch that I received from my school board as a retirement present. At 3:55, I put my eight fingers inside the metal band. “Thank you” bubbled up, and it didn’t matter who it was aimed at.

At 3:59, I started watching the second hand count me down to a new life. And guess what? It arrived. I threw my arms into the air and smiled. Wherever I am now is very fine. I think I’ll write.